London's Rain
by fictionaladdicts
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had always been friends ... that was until it started.
1. London's Rain

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had always liked one another. It was that simple. Sherlock liked the way that John could make the perfect coffee and John liked the way Sherlock could make him want to smile or smash his head against the wall a few times. They were friends. Plain and simple.

That was until it started.

It was raining that day. Well, they were in central London, and it was the middle of winter; so it _always _rained. But John liked the rain. He liked the way that the water droplets would splutter down the window or spill slowly like they couldn't decide whether or not to let themselves drop to the ground. He liked how they seemed to have their own little story; even if it was for only a few seconds.

Sherlock hated the rain. He thought that it was a disturbance. It was a disruption to the peace; to his thinking, to his mind palace. The freezing cold weather he could deal with. It was just there. It didn't disrupt his thoughts. But the rain, especially the thunder, he just wanted to get up and shoot at it like he did at the wall. But he suspected that if he did that Mrs Hudson from downstairs would come running up to tell him off like she always did.

_That woman, _Sherlock thought numbly.

John wasn't sitting in his usual chair today; the one closest to the kitchen and facing the window. But rather he was standing by the window admiring the rain like he usually did. On most days Sherlock would become irritable and make sarcastic remarks at John for standing so dramatically by the window just to watch the rain fall.

'We're in England John, it rains almost every day. If you're going to stand by the window to watch the rain fall _every single time that it rains, _then I can tell you one thing; your life is going to be _extremely _un-productive.' Then as an after note he mumbled, 'I mean, not that it's too productive anyway.'

'I heard that.' John replied, though there was nothing harsh to it, he just said it.

That's when Sherlock found himself smiling. Not keeping a straight face at what John would say, but actually smiling. He didn't even smile when he solved one of the many mysteries that were brought to him. At once he tried to think of something witty to say. Something to distract himself, but it wasn't really working. 'Well …'

John turned around. He was leaning casually against the white, Victorian window sill; the pale, blue morning light glistening across his face. His hair was a mess, all tousled and crazy. But it looked good on him. It was different to his usual tamed hair do. He looked happy like that.

John was smirking. _He's smirking. He's actually smirking at me, _Sherlock thought to himself annoyingly. _Ugh. _

'Well what, _Sherlock_?'

And for once, Sherlock Holmes was absolutely speechless. He couldn't even muster himself to sputter 'what,' or 'well.' He just looked at John. He was like a painting standing there: shadows and lines.

John laughed slightly, beginning to turn back to the window.

'Why do you do that?' Sherlock blurted suddenly.

John spun around again, staring Sherlock directly in the eye.

Sherlock hated it when he did that. It meant that he had to do it back, otherwise he felt defeated. John Watson seemed to be the only person that Sherlock knew who could make him feel intimidated. 'That. Why do you _always _watch the rain Watson?'

'Sherlock you know exactly why.'

'No. No I don't actually. Tell me.'

John smiled. 'Sherlock I'm not going to tell you. Besides, I'm not going to _bore _you with the poetic details.'

Sherlock suddenly felt a sting of sadness. He didn't realise John thought that when he spoke to Sherlock that John thought he was _boring _him. That was one thing Sherlock was sure on in life: John Watson could never bore him. Never.

'John,' Sherlock whispered. 'You could _never _bore me. _Never._'

'Yes Sherlock.'

The rain outside began to roar and John turned back to the window.


	2. Breakfast at Baker Street

Breakfast at 221B Baker Street was always so ordinary and quiet. Well, Sherlock stepped over chairs, sorted through papers, twitched and occasionally shot at the wall, but at least he was quiet about it. All the while, John Watson, sat there, and stifled back a laugh. But this particular morning, things were, looking slightly different.

John was sitting at the round dining room table – that was far too large for the kitchen – and sat as far away as possible from the body infested fridge. Sherlock found it amusing to keep human fingers – real fingers! – and the occasional toe stashed away. Don't get me wrong, having been a doctor in the armed forces, John Watson had certainly seen his fair share of delightful body parts –and some were quite delightful – but whilst sipping his nice, hot cup of coffee and flipping through the morning paper, he preferred not to be near any body parts … okay, _except Sherlock Holmes' … _John blinked a few times at his abrupt and unexpected thought. He swallowed and looked around the apartment, as if someone might hear his thoughts. Through the running of water from Sherlock's shower, he could hear the other man humming ever so slightly. _Odd,_ John thought,_ very odd._ He had never known Sherlock Holmes to hum or do anything exciting, but he seemed to be doing a lot of it lately. John would catch Sherlock smiling when he looked down and most of the time it seemed to be happening when John was in the room.

John focused his attention back on the newspaper in his hands and began to read it just as the phone rang loudly. The next thing John knew, the shower had been turned off and Sherlock was running almost naked out of the shower to get the phone. John looked him up and down, taking him in. His hair was lightly wet, his blue eyes were bluer than ever and his bare torso was simply glistening from the water and steam. John had to force himself to look away. _God. Get a hold on yourself, John Watson._

But, to his seemingly lost mind, Sherlock Holmes was indeed a beautiful sight. Nothing about Sherlock's body could be faulted. He was like a perfectly drawn piece of art. He made you stop and stare just by making his presence known, and most of all, he made you feel _something._

John gulped again, his heartbeat quickening.

Sherlock had the phone cord wrapped around his fingers, playing with it slightly. The phone was held to his ear and he looked over at John only to flash him a quick grin.

John was frozen on the spot. Before he could register it or even function enough to do something – anything – Sherlock was murmuring into the phone. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was receiving Sherlock's usual and ordinary smart arse personality. Well, as ordinary and usual as a high-functioning sociopath could give.

'What do you _mean _it was there and now it's just simply gone?'

Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, the recent caller of crime was obviously not satisfying Sherlock's needs of crazy criminals and unsolvable reasons. _Poor guy is going to cop it._ John felt increasingly sorry for the person on the receiving end of the phone.

'Well that's just absolutely ridiculous. Something cannot just merely disappear and not be found. This is nonsense.'

Sherlock wiggled his nose absentmindedly.

John had to cover his mouth with his hands to not show his grin. _He's adorable. _

'I'm sorry – actually I am not sorry – but this nonsense is making me want to bang my head against the wall.' And with that, he slammed the phone down. 'All of bloody London and there hasn't been a single decent case for three weeks! Three whole _bloody weeks! _John Watson I cannot take it anymore!'

John began to clear his throat, attempting to gain control over his emotions. 'Well … um –'

'I just cannot handle it anymore. I'm bored.' Sherlock flung himself into the chair opposite John, his towel hanging low on his toned waist. Showing just enough for the mind to race, but left enough for the imagination.

John tried not to stare. Suddenly, the inside of his coffee mug became the most interesting thing in the entire room.

'John …' Sherlock began.

John tried to think of something to say. 'Eat,' he said, pushing forwards two pieces of toast, trying not to look at Sherlock.

'No.'

'Eat.' John was failing to hold back a laugh.

'No.'

'Eat.'

'No.'

'Sherlock Holmes, will you just eat for the love of God?' And John made the mistake of looking up, directly into Sherlock's enchanting blue eyes. He could write soppy poetry and bad music about those eyes if there was any peace and quiet when living with Sherlock. And, of course, if he could actually write poetry and soppy music. But somehow, those eyes made John feel as though he could do anything. Even poetry.

Sherlock grinned.

'Stop doing that,' John mumbled.

'Stop doing what?' Sherlock's grin widened.

'Just – stop … eat.'

'Can I at least put some clothes on first?'

'No. Eat.'

'Why, John Watson, do you prefer me better with my clothes off?'

John didn't answer but rather got up and shoved the toast into Sherlock's mouth.

'Oh John, you are a piece of work,' Sherlock said as best as he could with a piece of toast in his mouth. It worked though. John had finally got Sherlock to eat.


	3. Theatre Dramatics

Theatre Dramatics

Chapter Three

**Two months before**

'Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, you're going to like this one.' And Lestrade hung up.

'We found him like this.'

'Oh,' Sherlock faintly heard John behind him.

'John I would've thought this be nothing to you,' Anderson said, while cracking his gloved fingers mockingly.

'Anderson what have I told you about speaking whilst others are trying to think? You bring down the IQ of the whole neighbourhood, Anderson. No wonder why you work with the dead ones, you can't hurt them; they're already brain dead.'

John raised an eyebrow, pulling on his other rubber glove. Lestrade snorted, receiving a rather nasty stare from Anderson. 'Sorry.' Lestrade did not sound sorry.

'Hush Lestrade. John Watson, what do you think?'

John looked a little bewildered. The three men looked at him as if waiting for him to say something marvellous or make some brilliant deduction like Sherlock always did. He only ever remembered Sherlock asking for John's opinion on two occasions. One; was when they had first worked on a case together, and two; was when Sherlock was feeling bored and had wished to be amused. Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, he looked neither bored nor in need of amusement.

John stepped forward. They were in the middle of an abandoned theatre situated in the dodgy parts of London. The wooden floorboards creaking under John's foot, seemed to be the loudest thing in the much too silent room. 'Well, I think whoever did this was very creative. A little morbid, but, nonetheless, creative.'

Indeed they had been creative. The victim was lying, well, the victims torso was lying on the floor, however the victims head, hands, feet, legs and arms were spread out seated on a chair in a circle around the torso.

'No shit, Sherlock,' Anderson said.

The three other men stared at Anderson. 'You know I can hear the Australians suffering from your stupidity, Anderson.' Sherlock said simply.

'You –' Anderson began but Lestrade cut in.

'Yes, I would agree with that, _John_.'

'Lestrade, you said I would like this one. I don't see anything special other than a creative murder, and quite frankly, I have seen much better. He didn't even remove the eyes out of their sockets. An opportunity missed I think Lestrade.'

'Sherlock,' John hissed. 'Have some respect.'

Sherlock, stared at John, then at the floor, but did not say anything back.

'Yes, well … no, we thought you might like this.' Lestrade bent over picking up a plastic evidence bag and handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock examined the torn piece of paper briefly, handing it to John.

'_It's alright to die, it's the only thing you haven't tried,_' John read out.

'Yes … it sounds … familiar.'

'There was also this,' Lestrade went on, handing Sherlock another evidence bag. This piece of paper looked rather torn, and quiet bloody. There were several inscriptions, numbers and codes splattered across the page.

'Where did you find this?'

'Well, it had been sewn into the man's foot.'

Sherlock took the statement in as though Lestrade had said nothing at all. 'These papers are torn. They obviously don't match, even someone as stupid as Anderson could work that one out.' Anderson began to open his mouth, but was cut off once more with a menacing look being shot his way by both Sherlock and Lestrade. 'No – but I want to know where these papers came from, where their matches are.'

'That's the thing, we did.' Lestrade said pointedly.

'So now it gets interesting.'

'This man wasn't very good with knives,' John observed, looking at the cuttings of the body.

'Oh, thank god, somebody said that finally,' Sherlock heaved.

John ignored him. 'But why would they do this? Why?'

Lestrade threw his hands up as if to say he had no idea. 'The man's brother has a book that matches the rip of the quote.'

'But that isn't right. He wouldn't be so stupid. Not even Anderson would be so stupid as to leave a book around the place that had the rips of a murder.'

'Yes. Exactly. But this is what you'll like, when we tested the paper for finger tips, we found some. Many actually. On _both _of the papers. But the thing is, the finger prints _changed_.'

'Changed?' John asked. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that the finger prints changed. I don't know how, but when we got them tested they changed within the time period of say only ten minutes testing, according to Molly.'

'Are you – '

'Sure? Yes, I am sure. Molly is sure. She's not an idiot. She knows what she's doing when it comes to this stuff. She said that the finger prints from the quote _changed. _And the victim's brother, Mitchell Levi, says that he's never seen that book with the ripped page before today.'

John muttered something along the lines of 'don't they all' while he shook his head in utter confusion.

**Two months later**

'Sherlock Holmes, you get your good-lookin' British arse down here right now!' John breathed in and out several times heavily, picturing as many ways as possible to cage Sherlock Holmes in his head before Sherlock came stumbling down the stairs, his dressing gown fluttering open. John tried to look away, but only met the man's deep blue eyes and almost felt bad for yelling. _Almost_.

'I'm sorry, but did I just hear you say that I had a good-looking British arse?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

_Sometimes, I just want to strangle the man. _John thought to himself frustratingly.

He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 'Yes. I did. But that's not the point. The poi – '

'Actually, whenever we are on the subject of my brilliant body, it is _always _the point John Watson. I don't see what could be better to discuss rather than my good-looking British tushi.'

John snorted. 'Did you just say _tushi_?'

'Yes, John Watson, I did. I found the word rather exasperating to start with, but I soon enough found reason to use it. Perhaps I could find reason to touch _yours _... someday…'

John's jaw dropped; not because he was in absolute horror and shock, but because he was _sure _he hadn't heard right. However, if what he heard was correct, then he surely thought he would _enjoy it._ John just looked at Sherlock. _Honestly, you're sometimes the dumbest genius ever. _

Sherlock bit his lip.

John breathed in steadily and as subtly as possible. 'Why? Why are you doing that now?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes smiling. 'Doing what, John?' Sherlock asked as innocently and as dumbly as possible.

'This,' John said, bitting his lower lip as quickly as possible. If he started thinking like that god wouldn't even want to watch what would happen.

Sherlock blinked, trying not to laugh. 'John Watson,' he said, sounding way too truthful for the truth. 'My lips are parched.'

'Who the _bleeding hell says parched_?' John squeaked. 'And if your lips are so goddamn _parched _then go drink some bloody water, instead of standing there with your hair all tousled like that while talking about _tushies _and biting your _parched lips_!'

Sherlock seemed to show absolutely no emotion. 'John Watson, what do you want from me? I was just about to go shampoo my _tousled_ hair.'

John had to blink a few times. He cleared his throat roughly. _Did I just say that Sherlock's hair was _tousled? _Oh for the love of god. _John turned around avoiding Sherlock's heavy gaze, pointing to the messy papers, newspaper cuttings and folders of Sherlock's past, present and much to John's annoyance, future case.

'Yes,' Sherlock said. 'Those are papers John, very good observance. You're improving.'

'Shut up Sherlock.'

'Now John Watson, there is no need to be rude is there, my dear?'

'My _dear, _what is wrong with you this morning Sherlock?' John leant back against the wooden old-fashioned desk near the window.

'Nothing, John Watson. I'm just opening my British blue eyes a bit more. I have learnt to observe, not just see.'

'Sherlock, I'm not the poetic one here. Have you _read _my emails to my ex-girlfriends? Actually don't answer that, I know you've read them. Of course you've read them. But what –?'

'You know exactly what I mean my dear, John Watson.' Sherlock interrupted. Somehow, John picked up what Sherlock was getting at.

'Look, I may understand … and because of that … you need to stop doing this.' John slammed his hand down on the desk, the cases papers fluttering around in the cool London breeze.

'Stop what?'

John rolled his eyes. 'This! Sherlock, you are obsessed! You couldn't solve it, get over yourself! There hasn't been another victim like that since. It's finished. Let the poor man mourn; stop letting him think that there's hope that you'll find the murderer.'

'And, John Watson; what is your point?' _I wish; I hope … _

'There are plenty of other cases and no matter how many you solve, you always seemed to go back to this one. Why, Sherlock?' John's voice dropped.

'I'm interested.' Sherlock shrugged, trying to deter himself from rushing over to John and hugging him; he knew exactly what John was getting at and he hated himself for be such as snob when he liked that John was thinking that.

'Interested in what? Interested in him?' John stabbed an image of a rather tired but pretty looking man, his eyes the colour of wet grass in the winter. 'Because I have never seen you get so involved in a case. What is this about now? Do you just want the satisfaction of solving _another _unsolvable case, or is it the emotion to care that you have buried deep down in you somewhere?'

_He does … _Sherlock began to think with a smile on the inside. _No, he can't, but what if he does … _

'Well, Sherlock?'

'John Watson …' Sherlock's voice nearly cracked. He couldn't help himself anymore; he made his way over to the man, placing his hands over John's, moving it away from the image of the victim's brother.

John made the undeniable perfect mistake of looking up into Sherlock's eyes; then he saw his soft pink lips and … 'You don't mean this, Sherlock … you don't care. You like the chase, you like the thrill. You crave the gore, the mystery and the pain.'

'Yes …' Sherlock let his thumb rub over the soft skin of John's hand. 'Yes, I do … I do care.' He let his other hand trail down the back of John's spin, sending electric shivers all over John; he nearly gasped in surprise. 'John Watson, I do.'

And, before John Watson could stop himself, he was cupping Sherlock's sculpted face, the face of an angel, a fallen angel that John wanted to catch over and over again. 'You are so, so, beautiful.' _He's ignoring the point. He's deliberately dodging my point. _

'Only, because I've been lit up on the inside by somebody like you, my dear.'

'I need to kiss you. I want to kiss you.' _I can be mad at him tomorrow. Later on. Later on … _

'My dear, John Watson, do as you please …'


	4. I Wish Satan Would Come Save Me

Chapter Four

_And, before John Watson could stop himself, he was cupping Sherlock's sculpted face, the face of an angel, a fallen angel that John wanted to catch over and over again. 'You are so, so, beautiful.' He's ignoring the point. He's deliberately dodging my point. _

'_Only, because I've been lit up on the inside by somebody like you, my dear.'_

'_I need to kiss you. I want to kiss you.' I can be mad at him tomorrow. Later on. Later on … _

'_My dear, John Watson, do as you please …' _

John blinked, hating himself for it, because he never wanted to look away from those beautiful blue eyes. The eyes staring back at John, shared the same admiration and love that John felt for Sherlock.

Sherlock had just instructed John to kiss him, so why wasn't he? _What the hell is wrong with me?_ John pondered, hating himself for hesitating. 'I can't –' John stuttered. Those eyes were too much. 'I don't want to ruin this, Sherlock.'

'Then don't, my dear.'

For a moment, John wasn't quite sure what Sherlock meant. Although, his questions were soon quelled, by the sudden soft warmth of Sherlock's lips against his. It wasn't anything incredibly exciting to the onlooker, but it was passionate, simple and plain; something for the start of something; something meaningful. John could feel Sherlock opening his mouth slowly, step by step. John could tell Sherlock was nervous just as he was. Sherlock hesitantly let his hand slide around John's waist, pulling him closer. John moved his thumb across Sherlock's face, his lips pressing as close as they could to Sherlock's, deepening the kiss. John heard Sherlock gasp ever so slightly.

'Oh, God … I'm so sorry …'

Immediately, Sherlock backed off from the wall, and, in extension, John, who was pressed against the old wooden desk. John swore inwardly when he saw Mrs Hudson's small frame leaning against the door. She had a curious grin, and from what Sherlock could tell, she had been there for more than they wished her to have been.

John cleared his throat, still looking at his feet. 'Sherlock –' He didn't really know what to say. 'Sherlock was, ah, just fixing something.' Even with the thinking time, he didn't have anything good to say.

Mrs Hudson was finding it very hard to contain herself.

'Oh of course.' Mrs Hudson nodded in sarcastic earnest. 'I just didn't realise what need fixing was, um, so close.'

Sherlock's jaw twitched. John was staring at his feet as though the floor might open up and give him a way out. _Hell would be better right now_, John thought. _The devil might show more mercy._

'Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock clearly wanted her out of here as much as John did. 'As our housekeeper, you should only be here if we need you.' He looked her dead in the eye. 'We do not at this moment, so what the _bloody hell_ do you want?' Sherlock tried to be stern, but he couldn't help thinking about John; how he was right across the room, and especially how his lips felt.

Mrs Hudson, though still smirking, managed to say, 'Greg is downstairs waiting for you.'

'Greg? Who is _Greg_?'

'Greg Lestrade, Sherlock.' Mrs Hudson said impatiently.

'Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Hudson. That's not his name.' John rolled his eyes so hard he gave himself a headache. 'His name is Graham or something.'

'Oh for God's sake, Sherlock.' Sherlock looked at John incredulously.

And Lestrade couldn't just come up here himself?' Sherlock said, although, he really did prefer that it was Mrs Hudson who walked in, rather than Lestrade. There would be no end to the torment.

'I was on my way out, so I thought I'd let you know.' Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and turned to walk out. 'Sherlock Holmes, I am _not_ your house keeper.'

Sherlock ignored Mrs Hudson, as he so often did. 'You didn't see anything, Mrs Hudson.'

John looked up when those words were said. Sherlock looked pale, showing no emotion. _OH God. He's ashamed at what happened. _

'Sure, Sherlock.' Mrs Hudson wasn't entirely serious. But then again, she never really was. And with that, she left the doctor and the consulting detective to do what they did best, solve the unsolved and leave everything else.

'Come, John.' Sherlock said, pulling on his black coat, not even bothering to look at his counterpart.

John had gone back to staring at his shoes, praying for Satan to open the floor.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to ignore Lestrade and kiss John again. He ached for him; he was the drug and the cure, so before he could stop himself, his finger was lifting John's face and was looking into his eyes. 'This, my dear, isn't finished.'

With that, the great Sherlock Holmes flicked up his collar and told John to get his coat.

'Oh 'ello … Sherlock.' The DI nodded at them. 'John.' Lestrade managed to swallow the last few bites of his chocolate donut.

Sherlock ignored him. It was partly the fact that he enjoyed frustrating such small brains, but also because he couldn't get the feel of John's lips out of his head.

'Hi Lestrade,' John said, surprising himself at how normal and grounded he sounded. 'What's the verdict?'

'Well, somebody's dead.'

'Anderson's theory, I suspect?' Sherlock muttered.

In any other situation, John would've told Sherlock to shut it, but he couldn't imagine himself ever being horrible to the man again.

Lestrade tried to stay professional. 'Yes, well, we all know what he's like.' He cleared his throat. 'Anyway, of course someone's –'

'Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. You are better than that. Don't drop to Anderson's level; you know very well that the hardest cases are when there _isn't _a body.'

Lestrade frowned, but nonetheless, he would take the compliment from Sherlock. Even John was surprised at Sherlock's casual drop of a compliment. The kiss must have put him in a better mood than he had though. Lestrade cleared his throat again. 'We have ourselves a suicide, Sherlock.'

'Your point being?' Sherlock was clearly impatient, as he always was when there were bodies to be seen and scenes to deduce.

'Just come see.' And with that, Lestrade turned and walked off, clearly expecting John and Sherlock to follow.

'Oh, it's you,' Anderson said glumly as Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, the collar of his coat still turned up.

'Please do try to keep your mouth shut, Anderson. We've spoken about this before; you're voice lowers the IQ of the entire neighbourhood.' Sherlock stepped behind Anderson, just to check if John was there. It was then that he noticed how much he really did need John; how much he relied on him. John Watson, the blogging doctor, the man who had always been there for him, the one who had never judged him. John smiled sheepishly back, looking down at the floor, not so much praying for a hole this time. Sherlock turned back before Anderson or Lestrade could see him blush.

The four of them stopped in the main entrance; the dark flickering glow of an almost burnt out light cast shadows across the dark wooden floors. Before them was a large, rounding staircase. The building was rather beautiful, even with the impending suicide investigation contained within it.

'Well, this place is a bit dodgy.' John said, trying to distract himself from staring at Sherlock while he observed the place. 'Where are we going?' John asked

'Upstairs,' Lestrade directed.

Midway up the stairs, Sherlock stopped; his nose in the air. John couldn't help but smile a little. Sherlock just looked so cute with his nose all crinkled. _Damn it, John._

'Don't worry, it's just the horrendous smell of … Anderson's _unfortunate _choice of aftershave.' John was in complete agreement.

'Hey – 'Anderson began in protest.

'Just leave it,' Lestrade silenced him, his voice clearly portraying the laughter as he forced back a snort.

Lestrade led them down several hallways before pushing the small door of a horrifically small and absent room open. There were no windows in the room and no other source of light, other than what was coming in from the hallway.

'Is this one of your silly little games of hide and seek Anderson? Where's the – '

'Sherlock,' John's voice broke through Sherlock's rant and silenced him. Sherlock let his gaze fall to John, and quickly past him to the reason of silence.

Slumped against the wall was a tiny little man. His eyes were open, but completely glazed over. His neck was clearly broken, which was evident by the way it hung awkwardly. Sherlock observed all of these things, his eyes moving quickly from place to place, taking into account everything. In the back of his mind, Sherlock noticed John's breathing and the way it changes when he watched Sherlock deduce. With the attempt to push John to the back of his mind and focus on the task, Sherlock noticed the victim's left palm rested a small, black tape recorders.

'It's a suicide, alright,' Anderson said. 'It looks as though he hit the wall hard and snapped his neck. If it had been cut in any way, it would be suspicious, but it's not. So...' He paused for affect. '_Suicide.'_

John was standing very still and _very_ tense, watching Sherlock narrow his eyes. 'Sherlock …?'

Sherlock hunched down, clicking play on the tape recorder.

'_I have come to my end.'_ There were no tears in his voice, Sherlock and John both noticed. The tape continued._ 'In all good things, there must always be an end. People are stupid when they say there is a happy ending, because there isn't. All roses die and nobody can smile forever. Every angel falls and so do I. I leave myself nothing to suit my role.' _

'This man was murdered.'

'But he just – ' Anderson attempted to intervene.

'_Think._' Sherlock looked at Lestrade accusingly. 'T_hink_.' Sherlock stretched in frustration, avoiding John's gaze, knowing that it would only distract him. 'Are you all idiots? Did you _trained _detectives just completely miss the recent footprints left behind in the foyer?'

'What footprints?' Anderson asked, clearly bored and unbelieving.

'You are all blind!'

John took a step towards Sherlock, his foot knocking the rather large shoe on the man's foot. He looked down for a second, frowning. 'Hang on … these shoes are too big, and they're covered in mud.'

Sherlock beamed. 'YES JOHN!'

John blushed at the clear excitement. He had never been more grateful for dark lighting.

'Just hang on a second – '

'Lestrade, do you see any other shoes in this room?' Lestrade looked around quickly and shook his head when he returned. 'This is a bedroom. There are clothes in it, but not a single pair of shoes besides the ones the man is wearing.'

'No, we've cleared everything … there's nothing.' Lestrade added, hoping to aid in any way.

'Exactly!' Sherlock nearly grinned. 'What sort of man would have fresh mud on their shoes just before they commit suicide?'

'Maybe he went somewhere –' The everlasting stupidity of Phillip Anderson was astounding.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'The foyer, the stairs and the hallways to this room were all clean, there wasn't a single speck of dust or mud from this man's shoes. Odd, isn't it? And I don't think a man who is about to commit suicide would go on a sudden cleaning spree.'

'Somebody else has been here.' John said.

'And there's one footprint. Smack bang at the front door, where no one would even notice a thing. It has, so to say, been swept under the rug.'

'Just a second, so what you're saying here –' A person could practically see the cogs spinning in Lestrade's brain.

'He's saying that whoever came here, recently, hence the fresh mud, walked in with _those _shoes and put them on the victim's feet and walked back out after cleaning his mess.' John looked at Sherlock for approval. 'Oh. And the murderer walked out with the dead man's shoes and mistakenly missed one spot on the floor.'

Sherlock looked at John. 'God yes! John Watson you are brilliant!' Sherlock wanted so much to kiss the man and it took all of his will power not to. 'There's one more thing,' Sherlock smiled, and to John, that smile lit up the entire dark room.

'Oh, Sherlock. Do enlighten us.' Anderson remarked through his teeth.

'It can't be suicide.' Sherlock paused for affect, looking around. 'Because why would a dead man stick a needle in his own throat, draw blood and then get rid of the needle?'

4


End file.
